Fatherhood Eve

Friday, May 9, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. Have a good weekend!

I got a chrome plated safari hat. I know they’re coming, and
there ain’t no way I’m trusting tin foil. That shit was invented by the
Russians. You don’t think so? You’re swallowing their lies. Just like a good little cog. Good cog, have some
oil. It comes in a can, and the can holds bad decisions, arguments, and
sadness.

I can fly higher than the swiftest koala. I can swim deeper
than the mighty peregrine. I am made of all natural materials. This is my ace
in the hole. And my natural camouflage. Not that I’m saying I’m averse to
aliens or their probes. But it needs to be done right. I’m not no cheap date. I want dinner, and a movie.
I want some brass shoes to go with my bling, blang hat.

Hold up … did you hear that?

FYI - My internet situation is dodgy right now. I will respond to everyone's contributions - might take me a few days though. Cheers!

27 comments:

She looked away again because the light was always too bright. The plate dropped from her hand because sushi tasted like pain, but then again so did chocolate. The way home was new because that almost made her feel like she was going somewhere else. I miss her.

The monk sat facing the window, his face still, serene. The light from the window passes over his face at glacial tempo while his mind's eye both sees and doesn't. He is and at the same time is not; was and has never been. Silence waits patiently for sound to end. It has always been so. Silence was here before and will be here after. Still the light from the window travels over the monk's face slowly, like the silence waiting on the sound darkness waits in the wings for its turn upon the old man's face. Creation is an ongoing song, but all songs end. Silence waits for its place in the program. It has no need for an introduction or a cue to begin. It simply has no needs at all. For this ever so brief moment called now, no thing, living or otherwise, has needs, wants, or desires. The light from the window continues to pass over the face of the monk.

Runoff rushes down the embankment, pooling at my feet. In minutes, the deluge crests the top of my Wellies and drowns my feet in muck and water. Another May, another downpour, another fucking flood. Just more proof that God is a lie. Why would any caring God put us through this year after year? Where’s the mercy? Where’s the God damn sunshine?

I lift my face skyward and shut my eyes. I pray to no one. Beg for nothing. Come and get me.

The icy waters hit my waist and my feet lift from the ground. Within seconds, waves engulf me. I open my eyes and watch my world disappear beneath a shit-coloured ocean of river water.

I REALLY like this piece. The images, though not 'beautiful' per se (they shouldn't be of course) are evocative and powerful - sets the whole piece. Strong writing, too. You need to start coming every Friday, please. :)

Thanks! I read most Fridays but haven't had the guts to try. But the downpour outside my window and the fear of another flood like last year gave me inspiration. :) I aspire to write something as awe-inspiring as David Antrobus's Crow Highway piece. I've read that one to my family...

This is really good, Julie. It took me back to a conversation I had with a poet as we sat on the banks of the shit sea discussing life by the ocean. It was evocative in its detail and scope. Really nice, The quality is awe inspiring.

The winter of the blue snow changed everything. From indoors that December sunrise they watched at their windows mesmerized as the flakes descended despite the absence of a snowy forecast, white or otherwise.

"What y'all make of it?" Uncle Raymond asked his wife. "Never seen the likes of it and I been a big fan of snow since the Blizzard of '87."

But when all was said and done, the children were the first to storm the outdoors to witness up close this phenomenon, this blue snow, and one by one, like dominoes, each of them collapsed where they stood.

Uncle Ray and Aunt Peg ran outside to save their two girls, but it was much too late. The snow had fallen on their woolen-capped heads, devoured their faces, their arms, their all over, until their skeletons lay in heaps in beds of blue.

For that long winter it fell. Then it ended as mysteriously as it had begun.

When the sounds come we're ill-prepared. We're drinking cheap sake and laughing at a Louis C.K. clip on YouTube. The horizon booms and something crumples or folds and a sky the hot shade of infection spreads above us while I stuff an old fleece, a first aid kit, a can opener, some rope, knives, fishing hooks, wire, soup cans, matches, underwear, panic things, into a backpack and we hiss and fuss over whose vehicle to take, finally settling uneasily on Maryann's 2006 Toyota 4Runner.

We go north.

My aunt, who raised me, once told me I would never understand the true beating heart of people as I was deeply unlike most of them. Huh, even though I never forgot it, I have no real thoughts about that. Do you ever wonder why ghosts refuse to speak? Do you think it's because we make them self-conscious, treat them weird?

The logging road's like crumbled brown sugar that's gotten wet and is now trying to get back to being dry. It also hides the teeth of ogres.

"The things we got so used to we'll never do again," says Maryann, struggling with the wheel.

"How so?"

"We might never enter the cooking time in a microwave ever again."

My answer is to turn on her radio, punch random buttons. A bunch of excited babble. They canceled some shit in Vancouver. We should stay in our homes until help arrives. A woman repeating, "The zealous castaways are roasting their organs in the root cellar." Some preacher. Katy Perry.

In a world we need to all be painters, can you describe the difference between burnt umber and raw sienna? Exactly.

"When do we stop?" Maryann squints at me, wrenches the wheel from a sheer drop, a split second from disaster. What is disaster amid catastrophe? Nothing. Nothing. We could fall right off the mountain and it would be like a drop of rain joining the coming tsunami.

I literally can't answer her. Instead I sing to myself a song, some minor key Appalachian dirge, wondering if the last recorded music I'll ever hear will be by Katy fucking Perry, not that I even dislike her that much, but still…until I remember something.

Yeah, if this happened, that bottle of sake would have been the first thing to go in the backpack! I also realised I missed an opportunity for word play in the title: should have called it "Fuck Sake."

Thanks, brother. And a bigger thanks for providing this every Friday, as it's really encouraging people to bring their A game.

It was finally a warm enough day to spray the drywall mud. I packed up my tools and headed down to the lakehouse. Everything was set up and waiting for me, but when I turned on the air compressor, it pissed out air from a broken fitting. DAMMIT! I made a trip to Geri's place to fill him in on the lack of progress, only to hear his well pump running wild. Repeated pounding on the door produced nothing. Fuck it, It was time for lunch, so I left a note on the door and ran home for a sammitch. As I popped the last bite in my mouth, the phone bitched. "I had a doctor's appointment, can you come back down and fix the well?" "Sure, I'll be right down." When I got there, I opened the well head and reseated the pitless adapter, sealing the leak and allowing the house to pressurize properly, and the pressure switch turned off the pump. That's when I went inside to let him know it was all good, and got a good look at him. It had only been two weeks since I last saw him, but I barely recognized him. His face was gaunt, and seemed longer than I remembered it. "You haven't been eating, have you." It was more a statement than a question. "The doctor told me today that I have two weeks left...maybe. I want the cabin to stay in the family, so I'm giving it to one of my brothers." His words were barely audible, but I understood him all too well. He'll never get to see the lakehouse finished. He'll never leave that bed again. "If you need anything, ANYTHING, just call me." As I left his house, that unsavory feeling of dread and darkness filled my chest as I labored to breath. Last fall this man was an chainsaw wielding maniac. I can't wrap my fat head around it. The older I get, the faster my friends are leaving this rock. I made one last trip to the lakehouse, and posted a note on the wall--To whom it may concern; my name is JT, and I would be honored to finish what me and Geri started here--and left my number. Another chapter comes to an early close as I locked the door.